


Call Me Home

by nuclearchinchilla



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M, Music, Synesthesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-02-11 19:05:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12941724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nuclearchinchilla/pseuds/nuclearchinchilla
Summary: He hears the music of the universe.There is just one voice that can so effortlessly soar above the steady hum of the galaxies and so irrevocably alter it.





	Call Me Home

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: lots of creative liberties. This is not an accurate depiction of synesthesia and you could just assume magic is somehow involved.

 He hears the music of the universe.

There's no better way to describe it. There's a steady intricate hum woven into the very fabric of space-time. It's a tune that can be heard, envisioned, tasted, felt.

The swishing of his blades as he carves a single-minded path through the ice, the light whisper of the overhead lights that blur together into a huge halo as he spins and flips and spins- all of it is elevated.

Axel after axel, he flings himself into the air. Yet, even that in that magical moment where he takes flight and everything just seems to stop, to cease, he still feels those blue eyes of his lover burning a rich deepness into the music as that gaze stays fixed upon him.

This music is not a constant one. That is why he often finds himself easily consumed by the chaos of a crowd and the resultant anxiety- because no, no, that many voices all at once are disrupting that steady, smooth melody, and his anxiety is only amplifying it, only getting this music stuck on one painful key, not budging, just repeating over and over insistently. That is why, when he's happy, he's exhilarated, when he's sad, he's devastated. Because he can't help show it all, not with this omnipresent music that responds to every color of his emotions, embracing him and rising into a beautiful crescendo that soars upon his lifted spirits, or crumbling into a cacophony of noise and piercing him with jarring notes that punctuate his every sharp draw of breath.

Viktor once told him that he himself lived and breathed skating, and that he had never known anything else, at least not until Yuuri. But Yuuri doesn't just live and breathe skating, he hears it. There is something in the beauty of the craft that he can so easily lose himself in, something that raises the music of the universe into something even more, something no human creation can ever match. Perhaps it is simply the grace of this self-expression, and the intense focus it requires, that truly speaks to him, that does away with all that is unnecessary, narrowing-no, streamlining- all of his soul and heart into a single burning focal point of passion that truly pierces the melody of reality and elevates it into the divine.

But most of the time, his mind manages to filter out this hum. The mind, after all, seeks patterns in background noise, and recognizing the predictability in these patterns, eliminates them- or rather his perception of them. It is only in his times of intense emotion and his times of intense focus that it all comes to the forefront. And it's only if he strains, that he can hear the voices of others ascend into something much more, something much richer, something in sync with the indescribably complex melody of the universe.

But there is one voice where, even when he does not strain, even when he does not try, it never fails to soar above the chorus of the universe. There is one voice his mind cannot eliminate, cannot find patterns in, cannot predict, as it always strikes him unprepared and unaware with its richness, warming him with those smooth, dulcet tones. There is one voice that makes him genuinely wish there was a way to fully describe this talent of his; one voice he aches to truly express the art of it as he experiences it. If only he could paint it, taste it, dance it.

There is one voice that feels like home.

The voice smells like the end of a long winter, like roasted chestnuts on a foreign sidewalk, like an endless sea of violets tinged with the yellow of the setting sun, basking in the colours of pride and joy. It sounds like a clear crystal bell that taps lightly unto his mind with every silvery inflection, gently but almost playfully. It vibrates with a musicality that feels like a glass of scotch warming its way down his throat, like something that invigorates and promises and reassures. It looks like drops of gold hanging from a thousand chandeliers lighting his way.

Yet, even when Viktor's voice is not there lighting his way, he hears the touch of the man in every fresh new note he discovers whenever he dances. After it is Viktor- his Viktor- who had shown him not just Eros, but Agape and Philia and so much more. It was Viktor who had expanded all that he could feel and all that he could understand. It was Viktor who had caused this cosmological event, expanding and exploding what he could hear and sense and feel of the universe, allowing him to grasp melodies he never even knew he was blind to. To truly feel such passion and love, such dedication and devotion, and to express it all in every spin and flip and leap- suddenly, it was as if he could taste fresh sights and hear new colours. He could feel the music of his world unfurl and envelope him.

And yet, even as those velvety, silken notes washed over him, all he could really think of was the melody of Viktor's voice, always shining above this chorus.

He sometimes feels as if he is a thousand different worlds at once, like he is constantly escaping into a thousand different selves. He is uncertain and confident, anxious and alluring, sloppy and suave, fearful and courageous. He is a being of flux, of change, and sometimes feels like his previous selves are not more than haunting mirages whenever he recalls them, as if they had never been a part of him, as if he were standing atop the buried bodies of a thousand different pasts. He feels sometimes, in the dead of night, as if he does not truly know what he has built, and all that he has achieved rests on fragile foundations almost ethereal, like castles held up by the thinnest webs of gold. Would it last? Would it burn? Is he truly moving forward, or is he just running in circles, believing himself striving towards a future but really winding up where he started, again and again?

But Viktor is Viktor. The sights and smells and notes of his voice fills him with familiarity yet drive, faith yet adventure. Because Viktor himself is so full of hope and pride and joy, more for Yuuri than even himself, that Yuuri cannot bear to feel anything but.

Whoever he is, wherever he goes and whatever he becomes- suddenly none of it scares him anymore. He can face it all, because how could he not, when there is this universal constant he can always return to- this music of the man's voice calls him home, just as he calls it home.


End file.
